Dear Sherlock
by underthesamestars
Summary: (Post Reichenbach) John still has a little hope that Sherlock might be alive still, until that is shattered by an unfortunate event. Contains dark themes and may be triggering, may not be suitable for young people so read at your own risk. Only not rated M because it's not smutty. Goes through several genres, for a project in Creative Writing.
1. Finding Sherlock

"John?" the hurried voice on the other end asked worriedly. The blogger knew that Greg Lestrade had been fretting over him still, ever since Sherlock had left them. Lestrade knew how much the detective had meant to him after all their conversations about the Holmes brothers. Mycroft and Sherlock were two absolutely extraordinary men in their lives. When Sherlock had gone, they grew very close very quickly, and then apart as things were revealed about Sherlock.

Even though for a while everyone believed that Sherlock was a fallacy, a liar, Greg and John stayed true to him, believing constantly that he had never told a lie. But they grew apart when everyone realized, when the evidence was brought forth against Jim Moriarty and Sherlock's name was cleared because Greg got his job back, and all he had were cases, for the team without him had fallen to pieces and almost nothing got done. That meant, of course, all he had to talk about were the cases, which brought back all of John's memories of _him_ so naturally, he slowly stopped talking. That's why it took him a moment to process the voice on the other side, but Greg's insistent tone made his worry grow. Something big had to have happened or the man wouldn't have tried to contact him.

"What's wrong?" he asked quickly, anxiety leaking into his voice as the worry was strong in his mind. What if Greg was hurt, or something had happened at the office. He bit his lip as there was a pause, reflecting his own, on the other side. "It's about Sherlock." John's heart snapped in half, pain filling his chest. The sweet man he cared so much about filled his mind and John's teeth broke the skin of his lip to stop himself from sighing loudly at how much he missed the man.

"What about him?" John's words were clipped and direct, short and to the point because he couldn't bear to try to imagine everything that could possibly come next. Sherlock was gone and there was nothing John could do about it. Death was something a doctor, even a particularly good one could not begin to heal. He had spent so much time trying to put away the memory of the man in the back of his head, to store it away with his days in the army, but the moment he heard Greg's voice whisper the name, all his walls fell.

"He's alive." Those two words pounded through John's mind, his thoughts rushing to put meaning behind them. That was impossible, but he wanted it so badly that it absolutely had to be true. He had asked for it, begged for it, pleaded through teary eyes time after time to the headstone, which reflected back the sad eyes of his broken heart. He remembered that day as he stood before the grave, trying to stop his tears from falling as he begged his best friend, his soulmate to be alive.

John had an interesting relationship with Tears. They always came around when he wanted them least, like now for example, as the anger, the sadness and the wistfulness pounded through his body as the bitter bubble of hope managed to worm it's way through him. Sherlock, alive. He meant to ask Greg how that could possibly be, but the words that slipped through his lips were, "Where are you?" as he threw on a jacket, preparing to dash out the door. The words came with a sort of gasp, an exhale of something close to relief. He would tell Sherlock how much he cared this time. Things could go back to the way they were!

"I'm on South Street. He's asking for you, John." Sherlock! Oh, his heart was so full of emotion as he pulled on the old blue scarf that Sherlock used to wear. It was a mindless thing by now, putting on the tattered, bloody thing that Molly had given him from Sherlock's body. He'd worn it from the day she had given it to him to the day it stopped smelling like him to the current day. It was like a safety blanket. Like Sherlock was still there to protect his little blogger.

John ran out the door, not even stopping to say goodbye to , catching a small black cab as it passed. The immediacy filled him. He had to get to Sherlock _now_, but every single light was red and every stop sign took too long. Sherlock was safe, Sherlock was alive. Almost like Moriarty's disgusting obsession, the name 'Sherlock' pounded through him, echoing in his heart with a resounding thrum.

The cab couldn't get there fast enough. John counted every second as one he wasn't with Sherlock, making things right, after all, he was alive now. He had to get to him. He had to hug the man and see his face again. He just had to hear his voice, his perfect, beautiful voice. There was so much that John needed to do when he got there, his bad leg began to tap anxiously, forgetting that it hurt. Every stoplight was excruciatingly painful. He could hardly bear to be apart from his best friend when he knew he was alive.

And then, suddenly, they were there. South Street. John climbed out of the cab, anxiously looking for Lestrade. Every bone in his body was surging with hope and happiness and need to see Sherlock. He couldn't walk nearly fast enough, the moment he saw Greg waiting for him, and he half-ran for the man, his voice was sharp and deeply in need as he gasped out, "Sherlock?" The detective took his arm without saying a word—nothing needed to be said—and guided him quickly around a bend, to the back of an old restaurant. "He-He's back here?" John glanced at Lestrade, his trust faltering for a moment.

There he was. Chest naked, bruised, scratched up and bleeding in places, his trousers ripped and his hair a mess, was Sherlock. John stared at him for a moment, mouth open in an 'o'. Ages seemed to pass as he considered what he could say to the man. What words could be his first? What if he didn't get any more? "Fuck, Sherlock." He shook his head, "Where the hell have you been? And why wait a year to come to me? And god, what the hell happened to you?" his words were broken but quick.

"I'm so sorry, John," the man's voice whispered across the distance between them, "I had to do it, or you would have died. I've been all over Britain and France and most of Western Europe, but I had to come back for you. I missed you so much." The final words made a twang in John's mind. He had missed the man so much, and it _had _been a year, but that didn't really sound like Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't ever admit to missing him, that was too much sentiment for the cold-hearted man.

"You missed me?" But John wanted to—needed to believe it. He wanted to feel wanted, he cared so deeply for the man. Trying so hard not to take the words as true, at least until Sherlock responded, John focused on the oozing cuts on Sherlock's chest. "What happened to your chest?" he whispered, his fingers stretching to brush below one of the worse cuts, his doctor's instinct kicking in. Sherlock was here, he sang in his mind, a joyous repetition of the truth. Sherlock was alive, it was all he could think.

"Of course I missed you, John. I've learned a thing or two about sentiment in my time away. And I got attacked a day ago by a few old followers of Moriarty that I didn't know were still around." Sherlock's voice was quiet. John just wanted to wrap his hands around the man and hug him and tell him that everything would be alright, but he felt the pressing need to hit him too. He _had_ left John for so long, and god, every second felt like a century when he wasn't around the man.

"Why come back now?" John asked, sitting down beside Sherlock, eyes taking in the man's intense gaze through those sparkling eyes, shining like light reflected off water at sunset. He looked at the man's perfectly carved angular cheekbones, the way he held his shoulders up even though he was in pain, it had to be his Sherlock. Gently reaching over to him, he checked out one of the deeper scratches on his chest, "These must have hurt pretty bad."

Sherlock shrugged, looking at him gently, "I had to get things settled before I could come back for you. And they hurt a bit, I guess." He looked away, sadness in his eyes and John bit his lip, turning to hug the man. He stiffened at the first touch, but relaxed into John's arms, feeling the happy calm that his embrace could bring. John froze, his fingers trailing over a small line, a scar. He could tell, being the trained doctor that he was, that it had to be very old, from some sort of childhood injury. Mind flashing back to the day in Buckingham Palace, John knew Sherlock had no scars on his back.

He leapt to his feet, eyes glaring at the man. "Who the fuck are you?" he slapped the imposter across the face. "Where's the real Sherlock?" The man protested, saying that he had to be the real one, that John needed to calm down and just listen. John shook his head, stepping back towards a surprised Lestrade. "Turn around then, show me the scar on your back, _Sherlock_." his tone mocked the man, and Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

The man took a long breath and turned around to reveal the thin scar that was nearly faded. "Fuck you." John turned his back, walking past Lestrade, shaking and starting to sob. He had so much hope that Sherlock was alive, but it was all a lie. It was fake. Sherlock was never coming back, ever. He was dead.


	2. Falling

BLINDED by **fear**

drowning in **doubt**

struggling to be **free**

it's _destroying_ me

lOOking for a way out

_I'm going CRAZY_

breaking down

I'm  
falling apart

I don't know my  
left  
I don't know my  
right

I'm falling apart  
without YOU, you see

I'm falling apart  
because  
you  
left  
me.


	3. Goodbye, Sherlock

Dear Sherlock Lestrade You,

I'm so sorry you have to see me, well, like this. I guess I should thank you for finding me, making sure I get a proper burial or whatever. Not that I honestly care about where—well yeah. I do care. Put me next to Sherlock. The _real_ Sherlock.

I'm sorry. I just can't go forward. I've been at this point before. I met you him and he sort of saved my life. But now my angel's gone and I can't find the hope that he's somehow alive. You made me whole again and now I'm missing a part of me. You showed me what it was like to live again And now I can't help but miss that.

You he was my best friend. And now, I have no one to care about me. I've stopped eating again, Sherlock if this doesn't succeed, well I have other ways. I just don't want to live like this. Please god, let me be free. Maybe if things were different, Sherlock, I'd be around tomorrow. But they're not different and they never will be. I'm done, Sherlock. This is my goodbye. My note. An actual note, not a phone call.

My hands have stopped shaking again. I'm ready now.

Goodbye, Sherlock.


	4. Locked Up

**St. Bartholomew's Psychiatry Ward Schedule**

** _For a brighter tomorrow_**

8:30: Wakeup/Daily Needs

9:00-9:30: Breakfast

9:30-10:00: Daily Meeting

100:00-11:30: Group Therapy

11:30-12:30: Psychiatrist Meetings

12:30-1:00: Lunch

1:00-1:30: Free Time

1:30-3:00: Group Therapy

3:00-4:00: Recreational Time

4:00-4:45: Quiet/Nap Time

5:00-6:00: Visiting Hour

6:00-6:30: Dinner

6:30-7:00: Free Time

7:00-8:30: Group Therapy

8:30-10:00: Free Time/Bedtime

10:00: Bedtime

Revised 10/30/2012

Phone: 679-323-4496

Fax: 854-894-1293

E-mail: hronald

221 East Umberland Street

West Smithfield  
London, England

EC1A 7BE

St. Bartholomew's Hospital of England


	5. Even Here

even here I am lost  
even here I am sad  
I tried to say goodbye  
I tried to make it end  
so why am I still here, Sherlock?  
I thought it was my finale.

a grand game, a grander finale  
a sad detective, a doctor lost  
but you found me, Sherlock,  
you gave me life to stop the sad  
and then it had to end  
you had to say goodbye

I tried to say goodbye  
I tried to find the finale  
I thought I had the end  
I thought I wasn't lost  
I just want to not be sad  
I want to be with Sherlock.

In heaven with Sherlock  
I want to say goodbye  
I want to stop the sad  
I want my grand finale  
I don't want to be lost  
I want the happy end.

I guess I need to work for the end  
I'll see you soon, my Sherlock  
I'll soon stop being lost  
This is my goodbye  
I'm trying again for the finale  
So I can not be sad.

Without you I'm so sad  
That's why I seek the end  
I'll get my finale  
This time, I'll do it right, Sherlock  
I want to say goodbye.  
I'm going to find my way. I won't be lost.


	6. Missing You

_SHERLOCK HOLMES_

I hate myself. I hate myself for making John hurt so deeply. I had to set it up to save him. He would have died! And now he's trying to again. And it's all my fault. It's all my fault. I've almost got things settled enough to see him again but I need more time. I don't have more time. I know he's safer in the hospital than out here but I know he's too smart for his own good. Average, but smart for the average. It's an odd feeling, need. I've never needed for anything before I met John. And now I'm losing him and it hurts in my chest where my heart is. Being apart is breaking me down bit by bit day by day I need him so badly. It's not like food that you can go without for a few days, it's like something deeper, within my soul. I know he has to be alive. I probably would kill myself if John wasn't here if I didn't have hope to see him again. I need to see him again. I'll go to the hospital soon. I'll have to set things up with Lestrade. I need him. I've seen tiny glimpses of John here and there but they're fleeting and so short and now he's in the hospital I can't anymore. The moment I make obvious contact, the final follower will kill us both. I need to deal with the last follower before I can even see him. And I need him. Thus, I must kill the last follower immediately. No matter what, I'm doing this for John. I'll see him and save him and we'll be happy again. Him and me. I can only imagine what it's like to be John right now, locked away. I wish I could be there for him to help him and make it all better. I bet he's using his cane again. I bet he's not eating, just like me. I bet he's hurting real bad. God, this man is everything to me. He has to end up okay. No matter what, John must be okay.

_JOHN WATSON_

I'm sitting next to a schizophrenic woman named Donna. Since I was admitted to the ward a few days ago, we've become friends. She waved at me as they wheeled me in from the emergency room, not staring at the bruises on my neck like some of the others did. Lestrade stopped me probably gave me CPR and 'saved' my life. I didn't want to be saved. I want to be dead right now. I want to be with Sherlock in heaven, because I'm tired of seeing him in all the faces. He's there leaning against the wall in the corner, on the street, in a crowd, it's as if he's following me. But no, he's dead. Sherlock is not alive. He's not really there. And I'm going to join him soon. Even here, I can starve myself, at least until they try to shove a tube down my throat. Not that I care. There are other ways that I could do it, to make it stop hurting. I miss him so much. There's not a minute that he's not on my mind. I relive that day every single day, a hundred times, the fall, the call, everything. Donna understands. Her voices tell her she should off herself, and she's tried to go along with him, but now the staff watch her constantly so she feels safer and happier. For me it's just the opposite. This place feels cold and lonely because I haven't seen Sherlock in their faces. Maybe it's because I know he's gone and never coming back. I'm beginning to forget what he looks like. Everyday it's like another part of him is gone. Like it's floated away and left me on the cold ground like he did. He's my best friend. Is, not was, because I know that he's still there in my heart and in my memory. Donna is leaving here soon. As soon as she's gone, I'm going to try again. I think I can get some rubberbands and tie them together. I'll be free, finally. I'm going to make it all stop. I'm going to be happy. I'll be with my Sherlock, in peace for eternity. I want to see him. I won't see him here. He's gone. I'm going to die, end of story.


	7. Saving John Watson

NURSE: John, there's a man here to see you.

JOHN: No one comes to visit me.

NURSE: He says his name is Sherlock Holmes?

JOHN: I thought you were here to help me not torture me.

NURSE: Should we send him away, then?

JOHN: No, we'll humor the bloke.

NURSE: Are you sure?

JOHN: Absolutely.

NURSE: Alright, take a seat in the visiting room, I'll bring him in.

John sits inside the room, waiting impatiently.

SHERLOCK: Hullo, John.

JOHN: So who sent you?

SHERLOCK: I did.

JOHN: What do you want?

SHERLOCK: To tell you that I'm alive.

JOHN: You're not Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: Are you sure?

JOHN: Sherlock is dead.

SHERLOCK: Sherlock is right in front of you.

JOHN: I don't like being lied to.

SHERLOCK; You're not eating again.

JOHN: Yes thank you I've noticed.

SHERLOCK: And your limp is back.

JOHN: I'm aware. What does that prove?

SHERLOCK: And you're friends with a crazy woman, possibly the one who was staring at me as I walked in with a blank stare, likely schizophrenic, But you're friends with her because she understands what it's like to want to off yourself and not have a choice in the matter, BUT she's leaving soon so you're afraid of what will happen when you're alone again.

JOHN: Any smart person could have guessed correctly.

SHERLOCK: You're going to try again.

JOHN: Yes.

SHERLOCK: Because you want to see Sherlock again and because you can't stand to have no hope of what's going to come.

JOHN: Yes.

SHERLOCK: The last words I said to you were "Goodbye, John," as I stared at you from the rooftop of St. Bart's—

JOHN: Good guess.

SHERLOCK: The first things I said to you were thank you for letting me borrow your phone and I asked you if it was Afghanistan or Iraq.

JOHN: Someone could have told you that.

SHERLOCK: Your left hand is shaking because you miss being in the middle of battle.

JOHN: So? Another good guess.

SHERLOCK: Who brought you to the imposter?

JOHN: Lestrade.

SHERLOCK: And what gave him away?

JOHN: A scar on his back.

SHERLOCK: And you know my back because of the time in Buckingham Palace where I stole an ashtray to see your smile.

John is silent for a moment.

JOHN: Let me see your back.

Sherlock stands wordlessly and pulls off his shirt, turning to show John his back.

JOHN: No scar.

SHERLOCK: John, I am Sherlock. I didn't die.

JOHN: How?

SHERLOCK: The homeless network helped me out. I can't exactly explain how because it all happened so fast and I thought I was going to actually die, but it was for your safety. Moriarty's men were going to shoot you.

JOHN: Shoot me?

SHERLOCK: And Lestrade and .

JOHN: To make you jump?

SHERLOCK: Exactly.

JOHN: So you faked it?

SHERLOCK: Yes.

John stands, first hitting the man hard across the face and then hugging him. The nurse pokes her head  
in.

NURSE: Boys, is everything alright?

JOHN: Everything is perfect.

NURSE: John, do we need to restrain you?

SHERLOCK: No, ma'am, I'm fine.

NURSE: Any more violence and I'll be back.

JOHN: Alright, thanks.

SHERLOCK: Well that hurt, but I deserved it.

JOHN: Precisely.

SHERLOCK: Are you going to try to kill yourself?

JOHN: Are you going to leave me again?

SHERLOCK: Never.

JOHN: Then no.

SHERLOCK: Thank you John. You're so strong, so brave.

JOHN: Thanks, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: I'll visit you every day until you're discharged.

JOHN: Now that I'm not determined to end it, it'll probably come sooner.

SHERLOCK: Good, I'm glad.

JOHN: I'll miss you.

SHERLOCK: I care about you too, John.

JOHN: See you tomorrow?

SHERLOCK: Tomorrow.


	8. Discharge

**DATE OF ADMISSION: **11/12/2011

**DATE OF DISCHARGE: **12/11/2011

**DISCHARGE DIAGNOSES:**

AXIS I:  
1. Major Depressive Disorder  
2. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder  
AXIS II: Deferred.  
AXIS III: Time as medical worker in army, was injured in combat

**REASON FOR ADMISSION: **The patient was admitted after an attempt at suicide via hanging with a blue scarf from the emergency room. He was unstable and threatening to try again, continued repeating the name 'Sherlock' and was refusing to eat.

**PROCEDURES AND TREATMENT:**

1. Individual and group psychotherapy.  
2. Medication management.

**HOSPITAL COURSE: **The patient responded well to individual and group psychotherapy, individual therapy and medication management.

**DISCHARGE ASSESSMENT:** Patient denies any suicidal ideations at this time. His diet has returned to a healthy amount and his weight has risen in response. Mood is cheery and playful. Patient has been friendly and jovial towards staff and other patients in the past five days.

**PLAN: **The patient may be discharged as he no longer poses a risk of harm towards himself or others. The patient will continue on the following medications; Ativan 4 mg daily, Effexor 200 mg daily. The patient will follow up with Dr. Doe for medication management and Dr. Smith for psychotherapy. All other discharge orders per the psychiatrist, as arranged by social work.


	9. Dear Sherlock

Dear Sherlock,

So you're alive. So you're really here in the flesh and blood, my Sherlock, my detective, my best friend. I missed you so much, Sherlock. You have no idea what it was like to be without you. My days were so dull and every moment was left pondering if you might ever come back for me. I was so afraid for you, Sherlock. I was so afraid that that was the end. That our adventures were over. Without you, Sherlock, I'm noting. I'm a pile of dull bones without a purpose in life, but you gave me purpose.

When I first met you, I was using my cane the whole time. I wasn't eating more than a few bites here and there in a day. You were doing drugs left and right. But then we found each other and it was like a button was pressed. My leg stopped hurting almost entirely and I actually felt like eating. And you were clean for so long, when it was just you and me. But then you left me, and it all came back. I wouldn't be surprised if you turned to your crutch too. We use our crutches when we cannot stand the world.

I don't mean for you to ever see this so I'm going to say it anyways. I love you. Not like I'm gay for you I love you, like you're my best friend and I love you. I love the way you see things nobody else sees them, I love the way you laugh and I love the way you are. I hate the way you don't ever seem to care but I love how cool and collected you always are. I love how you're not afraid of death and I love that you came back for me, but most of all, I love you for being who you are, Sherlock Holmes.

There's a such thing as a soulmate in a friend. You can hear those gushy romance soulmate crap where one person has supposedly found _the one_ and they're going to get married. But I think there's something special that you can find, a friend-soulmate, where they're always there for you and you're always there for them and you can not talk for a month and still be friends because you still care no matter what. A soulmate is someone whose soul you've touched with your own in a way that makes them feel a little lighter on their feet. You're my soulmate, Sherlock.

Love,

John Watson


End file.
